There was the paper before me, wet with the ink.  There was the pen which the hand had used.  Does anybody doubt me?  I have that pen now,—­a cedar stick of a not uncommon sort, and holding one of Gillott’s pens.  It is in my inkstand now, I tell you.  Anybody may see it.  The handwriting on the check, for such the document was, was the writing of a female.  It ran thus:—­“London, midnight, March 31, 1862.  Pay the bearer one thousand and fifty pounds.  Rachel Sidonia.  To Messrs. Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., London.”

“Noblest and best of women!” said Pinto, kissing the sheet of paper with much reverence.  “My good Mr. Roundabout, I suppose you do not question that signature?”

Indeed the house of Sidonia, Pozzosanto and Co., is known to be one of the richest in Europe, and as for the Countess Rachel, she was known to be the chief manager of that enormously wealthy establishment.  There was only one little difficulty, the Countess Rachel died last October.

I pointed out this circumstance, and tossed over the paper to Pinto with a sneer.

“C’est a brandre ou a laisser,” he said with some heat.  “You literary men are all imbrudent; but I did not tink you such a fool wie dis.  Your box is not worth twenty pound, and I offer you a tausend because I know you want money to pay dat rascal Tom’s college bills.” (This strange man actually knew that my scapegrace Tom had been a source of great expense and annoyance to me.) “You see money costs me nothing, and you refuse to take it!  Once, twice; will you take this check in exchange for your trumpery snuff-box?”

What could I do?  My poor granny’s legacy was valuable and dear to me, but after all a thousand guineas are not to be had every day.  “Be it a bargain,” said I.  “Shall we have a glass of wine on it?” says Pinto; and to this proposal I also unwillingly acceded, reminding him, by the way, that he had not yet told me the story of the headless man.

“Your poor gr-ndm-ther was right just now, when she said she was not my first love.  ’Twas one of those banale expressions” (here Mr. P. blushed once more) “which we use to women.  We tell each she is our first passion.  They reply with a similar illusory formula.  No man is any woman’s first love; no woman any man’s.  We are in love in our nurse’s arms, and women coquette with their eyes before their tongue can form a word.  How could your lovely relative love me?  I was far, far too old for her.  I am older than I look.  I am so old that you would not believe my age were I to tell you.  I have loved many and many a woman before your relative.  It has not always been fortunate for them to love me.  Ah, Sophronia!  Round the dreadful circus where you fell, and whence I was dragged corpselike by the heels, there sat multitudes more savage than the lions which mangled your sweet form!  Ah, tenez! when we marched to the terrible stake together at Valladolid—­the Protestant and the J—­ But away with memory!  Boy! it was happy for thy grandam that she loved me not.